Love Is for Losers Wibke Brueggemann (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

from Down syndrome, they have Down syndrome, which basically means they have an extra chromosome. The only thing they suffer are ignorant fuckwits like yourself.

God, she’s such a dick.

Tuesday, February 27 #TheNewestRecruit

Tonight when Kate asked me to sit down with her in the kitchen, I was like: “Who died?”

Kate: No one died, don’t be daft. It’s about your job hunt.

Me: I know it’s not going well, but—

Kate: No, no, I’m not having a go. I wanted to make a suggestion.

Me:…

Kate: Your mother told me that you think you need to get a job because of me.

Me: Not because of you, but because of me. Because the cat is pregnant with illegitimate kittens, and my research has shown this means a financial loss of up to £2,000 for you.

Kate (super Scottish): Och, don’t be ridiculous. I’d never expect you to pay me anything because the bloody cat got out.

Me:…

Kate: But, if you feel like you need to make it up to me, which you really don’t, and besides, you need to be focusing on your GCSEs, why don’t you come and volunteer at the shop? I can’t pay you, but I suppose we could always pretend.

Me:…

Kate: Look. You want a job, and I’m short-staffed.

Me: How many days would you need me?

Kate: Six, of course.

Me:…

Kate: Joking, you idiot. One or two afternoons. But only if it doesn’t interfere with school.

Me: What days?

Kate: Any days you like. You can do Thursdays and Saturdays, if you want to hang out with Emma and Alex.

Me:…

Kate: We can even pretend I give you £10 an hour.

Me: If I work every Thursday afternoon and Saturday all day, that would mean, like, twelve hours a week.

Kate (clutching her chest): Which would be tremendously helpful.

Me: That means I have to work for you for 16.7 weeks in order to make up the money I owe you.

Kate: Is that a rough estimate, or did you just work that out?

Me:…

Kate: All right, clever clogs, but please don’t think you owe me money.

Me: But I do.

Kate: Phoebe, you owe me nothing. Look, it’s just an idea. You really don’t—

Me: I’m not doing the till.

Kate (snapping to attention): Back of house only.

Me: I don’t want to talk to customers.

Kate: Naturally.

Me: Or Pat.

Kate:…

Me: Or any of the other old people.

Kate: What’s wrong with talking to old people? You’ve met Melanie. She’s a hoot.

Me (because, let’s face it, I’m proper out of options): Okay.

Kate (clapping her hands, then kissing my face): I love you! I love you! I love you!

Me: Get off.

9:15 P.M.

I’m regretting my hasty decision already, and here’s why:

CONS OF WORKING AT THE THRIFT SHOP:

Pat

other hateful/crazy old people

rummaging through the clothes of the dead

rummaging through general household goods of the dead

alphabetizing the books of the dead

wee smell

PROS OF WORKING AT THE THRIFT SHOP:

Emma

Alex

repaying Kate the kitten money at an imaginary £10 an hour rather than slaving away for actual minimum wage in a job I hate

Six to three I shouldn’t do it.

How do I go back and tell Kate no?

Wednesday, February 28 #KittenAlert

Both designer cats are preggers.

Kate texted me when she got back from the vet.

Congratulations, you’ll be an auntie.

Fuck off.

In other news, Miriam Patel’s still ignoring me. Turns out she didn’t like being called a fuckwit.

She can go to hell.

And Polly can go to hell, too, because today she actually said to me: “You know, Phoebe, I think it’s really cool you’re hanging out with people from the thrift shop.”

What are you even talking about?

Mum sent an email saying they’re still in Turkey. I swear by the time they get to Syria, there’ll be no one left who needs saving.

PS: I’m going to the thrift shop after school tomorrow.

Thursday, March 1 #HNY

Polly still hasn’t wished me a happy new year. It’s now March.

This afternoon I had my first official shift at the thrift shop, despite the six to three majority against the endeavor.

When I got there, Emma was already working. She goes to Wimbledon High, and it only takes her ten minutes to walk there.

Kate was like: “I’m so glad you’re here. We had our Easter card delivery this morning, and we need to get it out ASAP.”

There were ten huge boxes of cards containing approximately twenty-five thousand different variations on the Easter theme:

photograph of daffodils

daffodils in watercolor

daffodils in oil

daffodils featuring a tree

daffodils featuring a lamb

daffodils featuring the Easter Bunny

daffodils featuring daffodils

daffodils featuring daffodils featuring daffodils

I had to fill three spinners with cards, and I couldn’t shove them in just anywhere (even though who actually cares?), because I had to follow a plan they’d sent from the cancer charity’s head office, and it took me, like, three hours.

So at one point I was like: “How is it there’s six of us, and yet I’m the only one dealing with this?”

Emma said that she did Christmas cards and had told Kate that if she ever made her do cards again, she’d never come back. And Alex doesn’t ever do cards because, according to him, he’s a “customer service specialist” and therefore must be on the till.

Melanie and her husband, Bill, who FYI is 100 percent hilarious and wears brightly colored corduroy trousers, were also there, and Melanie was like: “Oh, no, darling, I’m not here for that.” And then Bill said: “And I’ve got bad eyes, so they all look the same to me.” Funny, because he could see the tiny price labels just fine that he

a)  wrote on in tiny writing and

b)  gingerly attached to the equally as tiny tie labels on the back of the ties.

Pat was off sick, which initially made me happy, but I quickly realized that she blatantly called in sick because she didn’t want to do Easter cards, either.

It turned out to be the worst job on the planet ever.

I’m not being funny, but maybe communism is a good idea after all. There’s a lot to be said for people not having a choice.

Kate was so happy I was there to do the shit job nobody wanted to do that she got us